


No Sex til After Dinner

by williamastankova



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bottom Will, Bottoming from the Top, Dinner, First Dates, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, Gay Sex, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter in Love, M/M, Oral Sex, Teasing, Top Hannibal Lecter, Topping from the Bottom, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter, unest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 11:02:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17486933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/williamastankova/pseuds/williamastankova
Summary: Title pretty much says it all: Hannibal and Will have been flitting about it for months, the elephant in the room. It's been months (years?) of flirty comments, without result. Now, though, at a private dinner at Hannibal's, they're both ready to take the next step.





	No Sex til After Dinner

It'd been going on a while, now. The lingering looks, the drawn-out touches, the unnecessary contact, wherever they went. Hell, Will had even went so far out of his way last week that he'd practically thrown himself at Hannibal, upon being hit incredibly lightly, but the doctor hadn't called him out on it, which he took to be a good sign. And anyway, it gave him a good excuse to touch him, and touch him he did: for a second, they were touching head-to-toe, and it was _amazing_.

Now, though, they were eating together, no excuses to rush off preceding a staring contest. Will knew he couldn't chicken out of a kiss now, if he became frightened. For some reason unbeknownst to him, he was constantly afraid he was misreading the signs, and if he decided to take the first leap, Hannibal would shake him off, reject him, and totally alienate him, or worse. This was irrational, some part of his brain told him, but the war inside his mind kept him from stepping further than cheeky remarks, and some attempt at flirting.

Hannibal returned from the kitchen, a dazzling dish in his hand. He announced it, but if asked Will couldn't repeat the name, because it sounded like something incredibly fancy from a part of the world he was wildly unfamiliar with. He gratefully nodded, and took a bite of the food. The noise of pleasure he made was just a little exaggerated.  
"This is wonderful," he proclaimed, then a switch flipped in his mind. "What would I do without you?"

Hannibal smiled back at him, and replied, "Live on microwave meals, I suppose."  
"Rather unhealthy." Will hummed in agreement, and ate more. "I think I'll let you stay."  
"Oh, will you?" Hannibal sounded bemused, "How gracious of you, kind Will. I'll stay as long as you want me to, then, shall I?"

Will couldn't find words to respond with, so he grinned and returned to eating. Even now, he's afraid. He can feel the fear welling up in his throat, and he's finding it hard to talk, to be witty and enticing, and he's just praying Hannibal can't smell that. Unlikely.

"So, Will," Hannibal took it upon himself to continue the conversation, breaking from eating to take a sip of his crimson wine, "What happens next?"

The indirectness of the question threw Will off. Looking across at Hannibal, he only grew more confused. Was he referring to their cases, or to something else entirely? Perhaps the night, and what was to come? He wasn't sure, and so he tried to be as vague as possible without being beige. He formulated just the right three words to encapsulate everything he wanted to say, and imply.  
"You tell me."

A silence.  
He sees Hannibal eye him up, not lifting his cutlery to eat, not putting his wine back on the table, not doing anything. Just looking so intently at Will, he's not entirely sure he can't see straight through him. Will, determined not to let the moment drop, holds Hannibal's gaze long enough for the doctor to be the first to break it off, and return to his plate. Not eating, just more staring, and a chime in Will makes him feel... elated. Proud, even, somewhat.

He's relatively quiet, until they've both finished with the main course. As promised, Hannibal takes the plates back into the kitchen and retrieves two bowls, each containing what seems to be some sort of ice-cream; Will's never felt more simultaneously civilised and animalistic in his entire life.  
"What's this called?" He asks, using his spoon to direct Hannibal's attention to the dessert.

"Limoncello Semifreddo," Hannibal pronounces each word perfectly, anunciating each syllable, "An Italian dish, I thought you'd enjoy it."  
"Well, we'll see." Will's joke feels like it should fall flat on its face, but it manages to pull the corner of Hannibal's mouth up into a smirk. Taking a small spoonful, he's taken aback by the distinct flavouring of liqueur, and he's not convinced he'll stay sober if he keeps eating. "It's amazing."

Hannibal's laugh is breathy, and quite short. "What's the matter?"  
"Nothing's the matter," Will shakes his head, "Why do you ask?"  
"Your face," Hannibal explains, "It's very... scrunched up. Do you not like it? I won't be offended if you don't."

Will finds it in himself to be amused, because he knows he's never been very good with hiding the effect certain tastes have on him. "No, no, it's fine. Just... I wasn't expecting it to be quite so strong, and lemon-y."

Hannibal chuckles, and offers up his own. "Here, you might prefer this? I haven't eaten any, so it isn't contaminated. Yet. This one is strawberry, which I don't believe you have an allergy to."  
"Really, I'm fine- I just needed a moment to adjust, I suppose."

Will casts a look down at his arm at the same time Hannibal does, and sees the goosebumps that have risen there and, as he can feel now, all across his body. He knows his body is betraying him in more ways than one, so his words won't have much of an effect on Hannibal's opinion now, but he seems to respect Will enough to drop the matter and take to eating small pieces of his own semifreddo.

They finish up in silence. Hannibal takes their bowls, and once more puts them in the kitchen. However, when he returns, he simply gestures for Will to stand and follow him, and he leads them into the main room, and waits for Will to sit down of his own accord, before taking his place across from him. He inhales, holding the breath for a moment, then releases it, and brings words out with it.  
"We should talk about us, Will."

Will lets himself chuckle at the professional tone of Hannibal's voice. "And here I thought you just invited me over to have a nice chat. Therapy's not til Thursday."

Hannibal spares him a small smile, and bows his head, looking at his hands, "This is... off record. Or at least, I should hope that it is."

Will eyes him up, watching as he laces his fingers and brings his gaze up to meet his own. He smirks, trying to look enticing but having no genuine idea how he's managing it, "Whyever might that be, Doctor Lecter?"

Hannibal shuffles, looking as though he was about to stand, but remains seated. His voice turns low, gruff, and he hums, "I hardly think this is appropriate, pertaining to our doctor-patient relationship. I think romantic whims are supposed to be avoided at all costs."

"And what a shame that is," Will tries to look nonchalant, and casts a look away from Hannibal, not missing how he notices and tries to move more into his field of vision. "Then, if you're not making any sort of record, I'm not. Does that clear anything up for you, Sir?"

He brings his eyes back just in time to see how the word affects him, how he shifts and his gaze darkens. It's fascinating, learning about Hannibal in such an intimate way. He wants more. No matter how much it frightens him, no matter how much something in the back of his brain will always dig into his conscious, telling him to retreat, to go home to safety, he wants this. He wants Hannibal.

He stands, not uttering another word, and hardly pauses to consider what to do, because he knows if he does he'll reconsider what he's about to do. So, he boldly crosses the room, coming to stop before Hannibal in his chair, and stares him down. He tries to look powerful, like something to be worshiped, something Hannibal might want to break in the best way possible, and then sets a knee on either side of him in his chair, straddling him.

He's somewhat unsure of himself, to begin with. He jumps when Hannibal's hands skim down his sides, then settle on his hips. He realises his arms aren't anywhere yet, and thinks he'd like to feel what Hannibal's shoulders feel like - how sturdy they are, how much weight they might be able to carry for no special reason - and so he places his hands on them. Hannibal looks up at him through his lashes, looking daring, like he wants to see Will come apart and give in, initiating the first proper contact, so he does.

Bowing his head to Hannibal's level, he hesitates - not through nervousness, but simple loving of the electricity jumping between their lips, across the minute gap between them - and watches as Hannibal's mouth opens for him, eager but patient, waiting. He shimmies forward, trying not to get too excited by how their groins connect as he does so, and kisses Hannibal.

Like a man depraved of water, Hannibal immediately kisses back. He's not messing around, Will knows, when he instantly turns the kiss into something hot, almost dangerous, and he's tightening his grip on Will's waist, holding him down against him. Will drinks in the energy he's throwing out: it's dark, but unbelievably sensual. He doesn't feel threatened at all, which may be surprising to some, based on who the man beneath him really was. He feels... wanted. No, not wanted - needed.

It's subconscious when he snakes his arms around Hannibal's neck and tightens his grip. The response, however, is fantastic: Hannibal makes a sound not too dissimilar to a growl, and actually forces Will's hips to grind down against his own. He's acting with so much force, emanating so much dominance, that Will has to break their kiss to exhale shakily, trying to calm himself down so as not to ruin anything that may be coming.

He buries his face into the crook of Hannibal's neck, nuzzling into the shoulder of his tailored suit and thinking of the least arousing things ever - trying to, anyway, but Hannibal's continuous rhythm of lifting him up and down, making their hips meet, is pretty distracting. When he's feeling too overwhelmed, he lifts his head and splays a hand out on his chest, making him look at him.

"No," he shakes his head, "not like this. Take me to your bedroom."

Hannibal's grin is the essence of true, unadulterated smut. He briefly bares his teeth, looking like a wicked sex god, then nods in acknowledgement, and in an instant Will knows exactly how strong he is, because he's in the air, in Hannibal's arms, and he's walking them out of the room like it's nothing. This, among everything else, takes Will's breath away.

Unable to keep his eyes open, Will doesn't watch where they walk, nor what they walk past, but he knows they've arrived when he's being lowered onto the bed and he can see Hannibal's face once more, watching over him to check he hasn't passed out with pleasure. He lays himself back, and Hannibal's hands reach out for him, and begin to unbutton his shirt.

He's partially grateful he wore the shirt with so many buttons because, although it's taking an eternity for even Hannibal's nimble fingers to undo, it gives him time to admire the man undressing him: he's looking pleasantly dishevelled, with his cropped hair in front of his eyes as he leans over Will, and his suit looks like it's stretching, as though want makes him turn into some sort of Hulk. Not wanting the fine material ruined, Will takes to stripping Hannibal's blazer off, slipping it off his shoulders first and then letting him do the rest himself.

His shirt, following fifteen years of removal, finally comes off, and an agitated Hannibal - now clad in only his shirt, tie, and pants - throws it behind him, not checking where it goes. His attention immediately falls to Will's belt, but before he undoes it, he plants a kiss to Will's mouth. It's a sweet gesture - sweeter than Will would have anticipated from him, especially in that moment, but he finds his body loves it. He shivers, and then helps Hannibal out by slipping out of his pants.

Suits, he finds, are a cleverer idea, for many reasons. Of course, there's the constant benefit of having people think you're an intelligent, important member of society, but in times like these - with a lover beneath you aching to be rid of the layers - they're especially helpful, because they're easily removed. It takes no longer than a minute and a half for Will to have Hannibal, stripped successfully down to his underwear, back on top of him, this time with no restraints on either of them.

"Oh, god," he can't help but say as Hannibal parts his pliant legs with leverage he takes on his knees, then slots himself between them, "god, god..."

Between kisses, Hannibal begins to chuckle, sounding hoarse as he does so, then says, "Do not take the Lord's name in vain, Will. I might have to punish you for that."

Okay, maybe Will should have a witty response to that. Maybe he should criticise Hannibal's sudden faith, when he's a literal murderer ("thou shalt not kill", right?) and cannibal, but he can't get the words out. With the way Hannibal's talking to him, with how his breath feels on his skin, with the scent of him impaling Will's nostrils and - fuck it all - his entire being, it's difficult to be cocky. Instead, he releases a muffled sound his throat had been attempting to keep hidden.

It's the way that, when he bucks his hips up wantonly, Hannibal's hand finds his hips again and holds him down, pinning him, rendering him unable to move, unable to show him how much he wants him. Will doesn't have to use his imagination to figure that maybe, just maybe, it's because he already knows - because he feels it himself. Desperate not to overstimulate either of them, he opts to wriggling left and right, to provide his lower body with a reminder that _yes, he is still there, and they'll do something soon_.

'Soon' is a relative term, he learns, but thankfully it's shorter than expected as opposed to the alternative. He throws his head back when Hannibal simultaneously sucks a mark into his neck, and slips a hand down to palm him through his boxers. He bends his arm so as to rub his own neck, his delicious frustration only growing, and thinks privately that he's never felt so good, in his life.

After leaving a few more marks, Hannibal seems satisfied with his work or otherwise at the end of his tether, and he moves both hands to the waistband of Will's underwear, then tugs it down. Will lifts his hips, not willing to wait any unnecessary extra time to be free of his final shackles, and then he's completely naked. Before Hannibal Lecter, he lies, completely at his whim, willing to do anything and everything he asks of him.

But then, he asks nothing. With no more than a little smirk at seeing how turned on Will truly is, he lowers his head and takes Will in his mouth. He himself releases sounds that harmonise with Will's cacophony of noises as he tastes the salty pre-come, lathered across the head of Will's member. Hardly able to move, Will has to peek out of one eye to witness the sight that greets him, but he'd gladly have the moment be his last because _damn_.

Hannibal's fallen to a kneeling position on the end of the bed, resting on his forearms with his lips wrapped around Will like it's a lollipop. He looks _glorious_ , better than anything Will's ever seen before, and the sensations are only thrown over the edge when his eyes open and he's looking at him, brown eyes darker than any naturally-occurring colour. He looks marginally demonic, because his pupils are blown so wide that Will's bleary eyes are having a hard time deciphering where his iris ends, but he finds he doesn't really care about that so much, because he can see perfectly clearly how Hannibal's basically making out with his dick.

Self-restraint running low, Will puts his head back down, and relishes in the feelings as opposed to the sights. Even with this, however, his movements are so precise he practically watches Hannibal as he moves his hands, propping himself up with one and wrapping the other around Will's base, starting another rhythm that Will knows he's going to have a hard time dealing with for very long.

It's getting hard to concentrate when he realises the hand Hannibal had been using to stay upright has moved once more, and is now being used to touch himself with. It's not hard to connect the dots, and conclude that Will comes at the idea that this, getting Will off, turns him on an insane amount. When he releases his load, Will cries out Hannibal's name, and thinks he might just vanish into thin air as the doctor doesn't stop blowing him until he's completely emptied out into his mouth, and then he swallows and pops off of him.

Will remembers, preceding a black moment in which he lies down on his back and can't think of anything but the previous events, that Hannibal still hasn't finished, and feels a little guilty. Sitting up, he notices Hannibal's changed position yet again: now, he's leaning backwards, propping himself up with the hand formerly on Will's member, and he's working himself desperately, with his eyes closed. He's releasing the tiniest stream of incoherent sounds, words, whatever they are, that Will's heard, and, finding himself somewhere close to both pity and intense arousal, he extends his arm and takes Hannibal's hand off of himself, instead replacing it with his own.

Because they've never done this before, he doesn't know what Hannibal likes. So, taking reference from his own nighttime experiences, he starts basic, going up and down Hannibal's length, then twisting ever two pumps or so. This elicits a good reaction from Hannibal, who begins moving his hips up to meet Will's fist, chasing his own climax. He finally releases a resonating moan that Will's convinced will remain forever, imprinted in his mind, and he comes, painting his own stomach and Will's fist simultaneously.

Somehow, he's breathing even heavier than Will. Probably, all things considered, it's because he had just spent minutes only being able to breathe out of his nose, so full access to his lungs probably feels like heaven, that he's not willing to give up for anything. Will looks at his hand and, after a brief moment of deliberation, brings it to his mouth and cleans up with his tongue. Then, he spends the time it takes for Hannibal to calm down and finally peel his eyes back open to admire the doctor, in all of his post-handjob/blowjob glory.

They share a moment of silence before breaking into equally hoarse laughter, and Will lets himself fall back down onto the bed. A minute later, there's silence in the room again, and Hannibal's moved to lie next to him. He pretends not to notice how close their hands are on the bed beside each other, just how he pretends not to notice how his heart skips a beat when Hannibal intertwines them.

He's unsure of what to say, but he wants to say something. He doesn't want to do that classic 'that was great' speech, even though it was. He doesn't want to ask 'what are we', because even though he wants to know, he doesn't want to be that guy. He'll let them figure that out in time, because for now, being Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham, fingers interlaced, laying down together after an experience like that, well. That seems just fine.

He turns his head once his chest has stopped rising so noticeably, and traces Hannibal's profile. "You know," he begins, not really knowing where his sentence is headed before he does so, "that could have happened a long time ago."

"Could it have?" Hannibal's reply seems bemused, "How much longer ago, would you say?"

"The first time I came to therapy," Will lets himself laugh because it's funny, and it's true. He'd have done this over and over, even back then, even not knowing Hannibal so well as he does now. "I didn't expect that."

Hannibal turns his head to look at him, then furrows his eyebrows in confusion. "Expect what?"

"You," Will states, grin growing wider as he continues to speak, "getting off on getting me off."

Hannibal breaks into a great, beaming smile - better than any Will's seen before. He shakes his head disapprovingly, then goes to hit at him, but Will knows when he does so he's acting out of jest and utter euphoria. He knows because he's riding the same wave, and he knows because he continues to speak in a calm tone. "You have no idea."

Will flips onto his side, so he can look at Hannibal without so much effort, and so he doesn't have to risk damaging his neck. He puts his free hand onto Hannibal's chest, loving how hot, how alive, how brilliant he feels beneath his fingers, and then he asks, "You could always tell me?"

Hannibal looks at him a moment longer, then cheekily smiles and suggests, "Or I could show you."

"Oh, yes," Will agrees, his eagerness surprising even himself, "You're full of clever ideas, aren't you, doctor?"

"Only when I'm with you, my good Will."


End file.
